“Any idea which direction she came from?” he asked.
Brother Matthias shrugged. “Not really,” he admitted. “We were surprised that the horse must have had a rider, though – she was saddled and bridled. Poor thing. It’s what made me wonder if the rider hadn’t sickened of something and fallen from his horse.”
“Saddled?” Brogan felt a twinge of alarm. “Have you the saddle? Easy, lass,” he whispered, as the horse rolled her eyes cautiously at him.
“Indeed, we do,” the monk agreed, nodding. “We kept it. It was a fine saddle, of elaborate workmanship. We planned to sell it to raise funds, if no owner can be found in time. We’d look properly, of course,” he added, as if embarrassed to admit they were, more or less, stealing it.
Brogan nodded grimly. “And you don’t want anybody to be too close, in case there’s a trace of pestilence?” he guessed.
“Quite so. Brother Luke?” he called through the door. A tall monk came over. He frowned at Brogan.
“Yes?”
“The saddle, please. Our knowing friend may note something about it that we failed to see.”
I doubt that, Brogan thought. The monks had assiduously assessed its worth, and he was sure at least some of them had been keen riders before they took their vows. The tall monk carried it in and his heart stopped.
“Where did you find this horse?” he whispered again.
“She came in from the west,” the monk explained. “We have no idea whence she came. Why, son? Have you…”
“I know whose saddle it is,” he said in a tight, strained voice. “And I must ask you not to sell it, please. It belongs to Lady Irmengarde.”
The two monks looked at each other, a long and worried look. Brogan swallowed hard, feeling his heart start to thump in panic. Her saddle had gone missing when she disappeared, and it was clear she had been riding this horse when she left. What had happened to her?
“Son?” one of the brothers rested a hand on his shoulder, sounding concerned. Brogan shifted under the touch, like a horse that shakes off flies. The monk hastily withdrew.
“Please. Get me whatever things were with the saddle?” he begged. “Saddle bags, a cloak…whatever else you found. It’s urgent.”
The monks looked at each other again, then Matthias spoke softly. “Brogan, son…there was naught else. Not a cloak or a bag or even a thread of linen. There was only the bridle. Nothing else.”
Brogan felt his stomach churn painfully. In his mind, the discovery meant only one thing. Some terrible calamity had befallen Irmengarde. He turned away, already walking to the stables from the barn. He needed to leave.
“Son!” the monks called after him. “It’s dark. Stay the night. There’s no good to be had in looking for her now. She’ll stay as she was until the morning.”
“What if she’s injured?” he rounded on them, rage and pain cracking in his voice. “What if she’s lying out there somewhere in the cold, with broken bones? You didn’t think of that!”
The monks regarded him solemnly for a long while. Then one of them nodded.
“You’re right,” he said. “You should go. Would you like a healer to accompany you?”
“Not now,” Brogan said, already walking back down the path toward the stables. “Make things ready here, so that, if she’s hurt, we can set to work when I get her back.”
He ran off, hearing the monks issuing calm instructions to one another.
In the forest, mounted on his horse, riding painfully slow, he retraced his steps. He headed west and found his path taking him closer to that place in the woods where the mud was churned by many horses’ hooves. He slipped out of the saddle to investigate.
“I di nae ken what I think to find,” he murmured under his breath, as he paced across the grass. How would he tell anything from smeared, muddy tracks, all but indiscernible after two days’ rain?
“Something tells me she was here.”
He walked across the site, aware that it was too dark to see. He paused and struck a spark from the flint, and cried out when he spotted something. It was something wrapped in cloth, lying just out of sight under a bush.
He bent down to lift it. It was a saddle bag. When he opened it, knowing in his gut what he would find in there before he did so, he cried aloud.
It was filled with provisions, a handkerchief, and a map, inscribed on leather, neatly rolled up.
He felt tears run down his cheeks, hot and scalding, they were tears of anger and fear.
He knew what had happened, then.
She had been taken prisoner.
He wheeled round and raced back to face the monks.
“Please,” he asked. “Find me a fresh horse. I need to ride to the fortress. Now.”
The two monks looked dubiously from one to the other, then one of them went to saddle a horse. The other one stayed there.
“My son,” Brother Matthias advised. “Don’t do aught that’ll put your soul in danger.”
“My soul is already in danger,” he protested. “If Lady Irmengarde is.”
He rode all night. Sleeping in the saddle, getting down only to relieve himself, he rode until the gray light shone on the horizon. He had reached the final valley, and the fortress reared up on the hill’s top, grim, unyielding and repellent.
The birds had stopped singing now, only the faint chirruping remaining of the earlier symphony. He slipped down off his horse and crouched in the underbrush. Mist hung in the valley, which would probably be enough to hide him, at least for the moment, from the watchers on the wall. Shrugging, he took a bulky length of tartan cloth out of his saddle bag and wrapped it around his shoulders like a swathing hood. It covered his hair too. He rubbed dirt on his face and gathered a bundle of twigs. Bent over, leading the gaunt roan, he could pass as a charcoal burner.
Taking the saddle off the horse, he concealed it in a bush, and then headed along the path. A staff to lean on completed the disguise. It was far from perfect, but it might work for long enough to get him into the courtyard. That was all he needed.
“Who goes there?”
A guard challenged him at the gate. Brogan swallowed hard and craned his neck up. His gaze met that of a firm-jawed young guard, his lazy challenge projecting an air of arrogance. It was nobody Brogan knew.
“Have mercy on a weary traveler?” he said, trying to make his voice thin and desperate sounding.
The guard gestured to his companion. “Hey, Lewes…what you make of this?”
The other guard shrugged. “Search him. If he’s unarmed…Mrs. Miller will likely have some scraps. Let him get warm. It’s Martinmas.”
Is it? Brogan thought. He had no idea, but he had a feeling the monk’s prayers for him were answered. He nodded to the other guard, Lewes.
“Thank you.”
“No weapons?” Lewes asked. He reached out and patted down his sides, grimacing as he did so. Brogan wondered if he thought he might catch some sort of pestilence and wanted to laugh. He looked at the ground.
The gate opened and Brogan shuffled in, leading his horse. One of the guards demanded he leave the horse at the gatehouse and he did so. Then he shuffled behind the guard towards the kitchen.
“Here,” he said casually.
“Thank you, sir.” Brogan murmured.
In the kitchen, the fire was roaring in the grate. It felt unbearably hot after the cold outside.
“What’re ye doing here?” a voice demanded. “Do nae ye dare cross the floor! I’ll no’ have ye spreading some dreadful plague about.”
Brogan shrugged and sat down at the door, starting, now, to shiver. He hadn’t realized how cold he’d gotten. Teeth chattering, he held the shawl in place over his head, and held out his hand. “Please, madam…a crust or two. It be a feast day.”
“Aye…don’t I know that,” the cook grumbled. “I’ve been on my feet cooking fish all morning. Who do ye think ye’re telling?” She gestured to an assistant. “Ettie? Get this feller the last of the bread.”
“Thank you,” Brogan murmured.
While he crouched in the kitchen, eating the stale loaf ends, he listened to the talk about the table. He might be able to pick up a clue. He leaned back, drawing the hood close about his face as he saw somebody he recognized. Bonnie!
“You’re back again,” the cook greeted her baldly. “What’re you needing this time?”
“I need to brew a tea of these herbs,” Bonnie said. “Wintergreen and cloves, and…”
“I don’t need the list, lass,” the cook grumbled. “Just get the water out and be done with it. Wouldnae it be easier if that McNeal did it herself?”
“Ye ken she’s not allowed out,” Bonnie observed, taking a copper kettle from the fireplace and pouring water into a clay teacup.
“He’s daft, the master,” the cook opined, wincing as she got to her feet. “He should do something else. Lady Irmengarde’s not the sort tae run off with another man. What does he think? I reckon she’d have taken the chance to do it long ago, were she so.”
“I ken,” Bonnie agreed. “But ye ken the master. He’s a temper like a stoat.”
Brogan’s ears went up. Irmengarde? What had this to do with her?
While Bonnie waited for the brew, he tried to decide what to do. Bonnie knew where Irmengarde was – she must. He stood and slowly straightened his back. The cook was facing away, towards the fire. If he could make Bonnie recognize him, then perhaps…
He hissed in a breath as his back clicked. Bonnie looked straight at him. He seized the chance and let the shawl fall off his head. She covered her mouth with her hand and he pressed a finger to his lips. Then he inclined his head at the door, opened it and stepped out into the cold again.
He waited there, wondering if she’d understood his meaning: that she should come outside to meet him. He was just starting to get concerned when he heard a voice.
“Brogan?”
“Bonnie!” He whipped round, grabbed her shoulders, drawing her toward him. “Irmengarde! Quick…where is she?”
“Stop it, Brogan,” she said harshly. “You’re hurting me. Irmengarde’s under arrest.”
“Sorry,” Brogan said, letting his hands drop. “I just…where, Bonnie? Can I see her?”
“You’re daft, man,” she whispered crossly. “The master thinks she ran off with ye! He might kill her if he can prove it. Your best bet would be tae leave the valley and never come back.”
“But,” Brogan said, reasonably enough, “I couldn’t have run away with her, if I’m here…I should show myself to him.”
“They’ll question ye, Brogan,” she shook her head sadly. “And don’t think they won’t make ye answer whatever way they want to hear.”
Brogan nodded. Torture was a certain way to make people confess to anything.
“You’re right. Lass. But, where?”
Bonnie shook her head, then sighed. “In the east turret,” she said. “At the top. But, please, Brogan…di nae get caught. It’ll make her life worse if ye are.”
Brogan nodded. “I promise.”
He watched Bonnie retreat back into the house.
When she’d gone, he looked around to make sure he wasn’t being watched. Then he slipped away and looked up at the east tower. Climbing it was no option – it was sheer and even the tenuous handholds he could see ran out at the height of his head. There was only one window, presumably that for the room where she was. He would have to go in from the inside. Yet how?
He leaned against the wall to hide himself, and tried to make a plan. He was not going to leave her there.
AT THE CASTLE
Irmengarde leaned against the wall, looking into the small, dark room that had become her prison. She was starting to lose her anger and just to feel simply desperate. “I’m never going to get out of here, am I?” she asked.
“Och, lass. Stop being so doleful,” Mrs. McNeal said, from where she sat on a low stool by the door, darning clothes. “It might be that you do.” She stuck her needle in between her teeth and bent lower, holding the cloth out to the firelight.
Irmengarde looked away.
Since Clovis had her incarcerated here, she’d heard nothing from him. He hadn’t been up to visit, not even to intimidate her, which surprised her. She had no idea what his plans for her were.
“Hello?” a voice called through the door. “Mrs. McNeal?”
It was the servant who fetched and carried for them – Irmengarde had come to recognize her voice. Mrs. McNeil opened the door.
“Aye?”
“I brought you the tea ye wanted,” she said. She handed a clay beaker to her. Irmengarde turned and looked out of the window. The rain had started again, a hard rain that struck the stone walls and ran down them like silver tears.
“Here, lass. Drink.”
Irmengarde shook her head. “Leave it on the sill, please?”
Her friend shot her a look. “No point getting ill.”
Irmengarde stayed where she was. Just then, there was a scuffle in the hallway.
“Guards!” somebody shouted. “On the alert.”
Irmengarde’s heart started to thump. What had happened? Thoughts of the impending conflict with England were her first conclusion. Then, that brigands were trying to get through the water gate. Fleetingly, she thought of rescue. She dismissed the thought instantly.
“That lot’s making a racket,” Mrs. McNeal said mildly. “I wonder what’s going on. I’m going tae have a look.”
“Don’t get into trouble…” Irmengarde began.
Her friend snorted. “I’ll not set foot out of the turret. How would his high-and-mighty ever find out?”
Her friend beat on the door. Bonnie opened it.
“Yes? The guards have all gone,” Bonnie said.
“Aye. And I want tae find out. Out the way,” Mrs. McNeal said harshly.
“But…”
“He’ll not know.” She marched through the door, half-shutting it behind her.
Irmengarde leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. At least she was finally alone here. Being confined with Mrs. McNeal was proving quite frustrating. At that moment, she heard a scuffle at the door. She crouched down, feeling her heart thump. What was out there?
When the scuffle came again, she found herself with an anger that outweighed the fear. She marched to the door and threw it open.
“Who’s there?” she demanded.
She gasped, as the person outside drew in a sharp breath. Standing on the threshold, face dirtied, eyes wild, was Brogan.
“Milady,” he whispered. “Let me in? We don’t have much time.”
“You found me!”
“Have you a rope?” he asked, looking briskly round the room. He looked at the window and shook his head. “It’s too narrow for us.”
“Brogan?” Irmengarde felt her heart soar. “How are you here? What happened?” She felt so many questions. More than that, she felt a searing, glowing happiness. He was here! He had come to find her. She had hope now.
“I’ll tell you soon,” he said. His eyes were full of warmth.
“Yes,” she nodded. “Shall we go down?”
Brogan started to shake his head, then nodded. “Let’s go. Can we hide ourselves here?”
He had lifted something Irmengarde hadn’t noticed from the wall – resting by the fireplace was an old sword. It had been put there for decoration, and she had no idea whose it was or how old it was, she hadn’t even noticed it. Hefting it, Brogan walked to her and then to the door.
“Yes,” she said.
“Let’s go down.”
Irmengarde slipped through, barely able to believe what was happening. Where was Bonnie? Mrs. McNeal? What would they think? How was she and Brogan to get out of the tower? She was sure the guards would come back, soon. Whatever it was that had distracted them couldn’t hold them for that long.
“There’s a room below in the turret. Where we store the winter tapestries.”
“Can you take us there?” Brogan whispered
back. “Good lass.”
She grinned at the brightness in his eyes, and nodded. “I think so.”
They ran down the stairs and reached the bottom of the turret, just as the hallway echoed to the sound of booted feet, running at the double to the tower.
“Quick!” Irmengarde grabbed his wrist and drew him back into the gloom. The stairwell was concealed behind a curtain, but the guards were inches away now. She hauled Brogan back into the low cellar room.
Together, they retreated sharply, Irmengarde letting out a gasp as she fell back, stumbling on a roll of cloth. Gripping Brogan’s hand, she managed to stay upright.
They were alone in the dark.
Seconds later, booted feet swarmed up the stairs. The guards, returning – probably on the orders of Clovis. Irmengarde felt tense.
“We have to go,” she whispered. “They’re going to find out any minute about our absence.”
He nodded. “Can we get to the garden from here?”
“There’s a way round the back. But we’ll have to be quick.”
Brogan nodded. “Show me.”
Taking his hand, she led him out from behind the curtain at a run. They met a guard in the hallway, who blinked in surprise as they sped past.
“Men!” he blustered, as the two of them ran swiftly down the hallway. “Here! The hallway!”
Brogan gripped her hand as she felt herself tiring. She was so afraid! Her breath was searing her lungs as she tried to run faster.
“Not too long now.” She gasped the words as she ran, heading down the hallway as fast as she could go. Behind them, the clatter of booted feet sounded on the flagstones, loud and insistent and echoing.
“Here!” She screamed, as they rounded the corner. “Brogan…no! Not now.”
He had paused, and she was terrified for a moment that he was going to engage the soldiers in battle. However, he looked around, thinking the better of it, and ran with her out of the doorway.
As they ran, the uneven ground treacherous below them, Irmengarde tried to think. She couldn’t plan, she could barely breathe. All she could think of and feel was fear.
“Milady! Here!” Brogan called as he ran right, heading toward the stables.
Her Highland Protector (Iron 0f The Highlands Series Book 2) Page 15